


The Sands Man - a Yule Tide Tale

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-20
Updated: 2003-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>El and Sands find one another and it's distrust all the way.  One hot Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sands Man - a Yule Tide Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ponderosa

 

 

The Sands Man  
A Yule-tide story for Ponderosa  
Author's note: // denotes Spanish//  
This story was written specifically per the request of Ponderosa and is as NC-17 as I can get it. This is my very first Slash and I really had a hard time actually writing it (when it gets Slashy). 

The Day of the Dead 

Leaning against the white-washed wall, a bullet in both legs and his left arm, with what was left of his eyes drying on his face, Sands thought things couldn't get much worse. It wasn't until the drugs Guevara had given him began to wear off that he realized he was wrong. 

//"Mister, you don't look so good."// The Chicklet kid's voice sounded far away. Sands couldn't answer. The pain was building, like a tidal wave, rushing at him, up his legs, down his arm, but especially where his eyes had been. 

He recalled being strapped down to the table, anticipating the pain as the drill came closer to his eyes. He must have passed out because the next thing he knew, he was still lying on that damned table, and all he could feel where his eyes had been was hot wetness. His lids were closed, but that didn't stop the blood and who knew what else from pooling in over them and spilling down. 

Now as he fought to stay standing in the fading heat of late afternoon, they were still draining, but the pain was growing with each heartbeat. His heartbeats, he realized, were pretty speedy. Fuck, he knew what that meant. I'm going down. I've already gone down twice today, third time is gonna be the fuckin' charm. 

It almost felt like slow motion, as he crumbled, listing at first to the right as he fought to not fall onto his left arm again. The wall seemed to move behind him. Sound receded. He didn't even feel the ground when he finally hit it. 

Consciousness returned in little bits and drabs. He was aware that he was on some sort of gurney moving, straps holding him down. Then more blackness. 

He began to come to again. It was cold. He shivered, his teeth beginning to chatter. He opened his mouth, but words didn't come out, only a soft groan. Vaguely he was aware of things taped onto his right arm and the sensation of something burning along the vein there. He struggled against the restraints. Hands reached to hold him down. Then nothing. 

Pain woke him. Even though he was drugged, it was an ineffective barrier against the razor-sharp pain biting down on him. This time, when he opened his mouth, words flooded out, despite his cotton-dry tongue. "Shit! Getmethefuckoutofhere." He tried to open his eyes, but there was something over them. Turning his head, the pain intensified and a moan escaped his parted lips. 

//"Shh. Settle down."// A woman's voice came from his right side. She touched his right wrist, his hand. //"There's a button here. Press it for your pain medication. Do you understand?"// 

He pressed. And pressed. He felt that sensation again, of pressure in the vein of his right arm, not quite burning but unpleasant. Nothing really compared to the pain vying for his attention in other parts of his body. 

"It's not working," he said to the invisible woman. 

//"I do not speak English."// 

//"It's not working"//, Sands breathed. The medicine button was smooth and plastic, and he pushed it repeatedly. 

//"It will only give you so much at a time. Relax, Mr. Sands."// 

So they knew his name. Where was he? What had happened to him? He kept pushing the button as his mind toyed with the questions. Slowly, as if coming down a long dark tunnel, his memories began to return. The coup. His manipulations. Ajedrez. Dr. Guevara. The shoot out. The Chicklet Kid. 

//"How do you know me?"// he asked. 

//"You are safe. We all know how you saved El Presidente's life,"// she told him. 

What the fuck? He couldn't figure out how she could think that. What was he forgetting? Ramirez and El Mariachi! Somehow, they'd done it. They'd foiled the coup, killed Barillo, Guevara and Marquez. Somehow, everything had been twisted so that he ended up a hero. Well, isn't that just dandy? A blind fucking hero. 

His thumb kept pressing down on the button, and finally a soothing darkness crept over him. He surrendered to it and drifted off. 

Christmas Eve 

It had taken some digging, but Sands had discovered what Culcuy had not told him; just where "Guitar Town" home of El Mariachiwas located. The day he got the information, Sands had checked out of the rehabilitation unit, convinced one of the female therapists to take him shopping (this time all his new clothes were black) and then he'd hired a car and driver, Manuel, to take him there. 

He had rented a modest home on the edge of town with the assistance of Manuel, who also found a woman to come in and cook his meals, do the cleaning, shopping and laundry, and clear out by 5 every night. What Senora Escobar thought of a blind man having so many guns, he did not know, for on her first day there, as he sat at the kitchen table cleaning them, she had grown very quiet. 

No questions were necessary in this sleepy little town. He figured El would find him if he just let the people know he was there, though he did not use his real name. Here he was Mr. Smith. Kind of a joke, for Sands. 

His own name had been compromised. Unfortunately, in his gushing gratitude, the President had actually come to the hospital. Of course, being blind and all, Sands hadn't see the flashes as the presidential entourage took photographs. 

The President had thanked Agent Sands for sending his protectors. Now El Mariachi had become one his personal archangel. The presidential visit had become a special moment for the press, one of those PR occasions that meant Sands' name and bandaged face was all over the papers next to that of the beaming and very much alive President. 

This, Sands knew when he heard, was not good. Not good at all, was what Agent Peister said: "The cartels are waging a turf war over the Barillo operation, since you and your men decapitated it." Peister didn't dare sit on the bed, but stood bending over him in the hospital room, speaking in a very soft voice. "It's the De la Rosas against the Guzmans. Whichever side wins, chances are they'll come after you, Ramirez and El Mariachi, whoever he is." 

Sands had taken the news rather well, considering. Lying there, weaponless in the hospital room, he had formed his plan. Ramirez, unfortunately, had taken off before Sands got out of the hospital. The x-FBI agent wasn't stupid. In fact, Ramirez was probably back in the states in hiding. If Sands was going to go after the cartels, he needed to find the other member of their three musketeers, and that would be El. 

Which is what brought Sands to his present location On Christmas Eve, Sands found himself seated for the seventh night in a row at the little Fat Goose cantina in Guitar Gown, waiting for El to find him. 

//"I've noticed you here all week."// It was a woman's voice, soft reminding Sands of other warm nights and sensuous senoritas. Sands turned his head, even though he couldn't see her, and wondered what the body was like that when with that dry martini voice. 

"Do I know you?" he asked, perfectly aware that he didn't know her. It was always safer to put a stranger off guard and make them think he was a moron, just because he couldn't see. Like that would stop him from shoving the Beretta 98G Elite II he wore in a holster under his right armpit up her nose if she tried anything. 

//"No. My name is Reyna. May I join you?"// 

He heard her move onto the empty chair beside his. "I guess so. So you speak English?" 

//"Not very good."// He could feel her body heat. "A little." 

He flashed her a quick smile. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" Hopefully, she was here with news from El. 

"I can't take my eyes off you." Her hand touched his wrist and it was all he could do not to jump back. 

"Am I so strange looking?" He reached up self-consciously and touched his dark glasses. 

"No. You are quite...the hroe. We have all heard about you." Her fingers moved to his cuff. "And you are very hansom. You seem to be alone. I thought you would like some company." She edged her chair a little closer to his and he could feel her breast against his arm now. 

"Oh, I see." He wet his lips. It was just past eleven. It seemed as if tonight's wait for El was going to be as fruitless as the last seven nights' wait. "Did you want to go somewhere?" he asked. Except for the therapist who had taken him clothes shopping, he'd been celibate since his blinding, since Ajedrez. He wouldn't mind a little exercise of the sexual kind. 

She shifted again, pressing herself more firmly against him. "Now that I am here with you, I don' t know if I can wait until we go somewhere," she said, her voice a little lower, her other hand reaching up to touch his back between the shoulder blades. 

Sands digested this. He wasn't sure why he was turning her on, but his motto was to never check a gift horse for cavities. "I imagine we could use the restroom here," he told her. 

"Yes. Now." She stood, holding onto his arm. His collapsible walking stick was sitting on the table in front of him and he only barely remembered to grab it and stuff it into his jacket pocket as she held onto his arm and guided him toward the back of the Fat Goose. 

"This place is filthy," she commented as they entered the restroom and she shut the door. 

He held onto her other hand and pulled her back around, pressing her up against the door. "Are you sure this is what you want, Reyna?" Her body felt young and firm and now that he was pressed up against her, he realized he was eager for this. 

Her answer was her mouth on his. It was a hungry kiss, almost devouring him. As it ended she said, "I've been looking at your mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss you." 

"I do more than kiss," he smiled back at her. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he realized she spoke more than a little English. He wondered if she was from the cartel. If so, why would she have brought him in here? His arms were around her now and he didn't feel any weapons. 

Her mouth attacked his again, and he kissed her back as savagely as she kissed him, invading her mouth, tasting her, hearing the soft sounds she made and smelling the womanly aroma of her. 

"Here," she took his hand and put it up between her legs. She wore no underwear and she was already very wet, her body pressing against his fingers as he touched her. Even the lightest touch brought an arching to her back and a moan from her lips. Boy, this hero stuff really pays off, he thought as her hands reached to unfasten his belt. 

"I want you now. Now!" she told him. "Damn this dirty place." She undid the button on his waistband, then pulled the zipper on his pants down and reached inside to find his eager member. 

As her hand closed around his already hard cock, it was his turn to catch his breath. "You don't need much coaxing, do you, big boy?" she whispered into his ear. "Do you have protection?" 

He grunted and reached into his inside jacket pocket. Just like a boy scout, he was always prepared. She took it from his hands. A moment later, he felt her sliding it onto him. "You really have a big cock," she said. Then her hand was stroking him again and his brain went into idle. Her lips nibbled on his neck and he moved his own mouth to touch her jaw, her neck, and her earlobe. She made an inarticulate sound, then moved away from him, her hand letting go of him. He heard material being moved. 

"What..?" he started to ask. But she touched his hand again, drawing him forward. She settled his hand on her bare hip. He felt her. She was bending forward, her skirt up, her bottom bare. 

"Take me," she said, wiggling her hips. 

He didn't need more instructions. Grabbing her with both hands, he stepped forward and into her hot wet invitation. Being unable to see, he took more pleasure in the sounds, scents and sensations as their two bodies came together, then pulled apart. He inched into her a little deeper with each thrust and she began to grunt as he set up a rhythm. 

"Faster," she urged him. "Harder." 

"Oh, yeah baby," he replied, pumping into her without restraint. Her groans grew louder, and he knew now the patrons in the cantina must be aware of what they were doing, but he didn't care. So the blind man got a little. Big fucking deal. 

He reached forward with one hand to feel her breast as he rocked into her. She began speaking in Spanish again, when she spoke at all. Most of what came out of her mouth sounded like dialogue from a cheap porno flick. Then she was arching, pushing back into him, her body clamping down around his in waves of pleasure, and he felt his own release building until it washed over him and a low throaty grunt escaped his parted lips. His head arched back and he stroked his hardened length into her a few more times. 

His racing heart took a while to slow down. He withdrew from her, took off the condom and threw it to the side, then tucked himself in and refastened his clothes. 

"Take me home," she said, pressing up against him again. 

"I bet you have a husband at home," he told her. 

"Take me to your home." 

He thought about it about a millisecond. What a way to spend Christmas Eve. "Okey dokey." 

She slid her arm through his, kissed the side of his face, then led him out of the restroom and through the Fat Goose's back door. 

The walk back to his home was spent in silence, the only sound made by their shoes crunching the dirt road. A bell tolled once. Sands knew it must be 11:30. "I think this is it," he told her. He'd counted the steps. 

"You're in the old Garaza house," she said. 

"I rent it from Senora Garaza," he told her. 

He reached into his pocket and took out his keys. Counting steps from the street to the front door, he knew about when to expect the porch steps. She seemed to sense what he was doing and she stopped at the bottom of the steps with him. Together they walked up to the porch and he reached for the front door. 

Fitting the key in the deadbolt, he opened the door. "It's probably dark," he told her, "Unless Senora Escobar left a light on." 

Rayna's arm left his and she walked into the room. He heard the sound of a lamp being turned on. "That's better," she said. "It must be hard for you not being able to see. I cannot imagine." He heard her walking again and music came on from the stereo. 

"What something to drink?" he asked. 

She stood by the stereo. "I want you." 

He pointed to his left. "The bedroom is down the hall." 

She proceeded him and he wished he could see her walk, the sway of her hips. Was she brunette as he assumed? Or did she dye her hair? Or was she one of the rare Mexicans with Spanish blood and blond hair? 

He entered the bedroom and heard her voice. "Take off your clothes this time. All of them." 

"Oh, strip tease show?" he asked. "That's not fair, I can't see you." 

"You will be able to feel me," she promised. 

He took off his jacket, his shoulder weapons' harness, his shirt and the small wrist holster and gun he wore. Next he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots. He had a dagger hidden in one. His socks came off, then he unfastened his belt and pants, and slid them off. 

"Do you like to play games?" Reyna asked? 

He shrugged. "It depends. What kind of games?" 

"You sit up on the bed, and I will seduce you," she told him. "You have to do what I say." 

It didn't sound too threatening, so he scooted up to the head of the bed. He pulled the pillows free of the bedspread, and stacked them against the wrought iron headboard, then lay down against them. "Okay?" 

She was moving. He could hear her footsteps, and the music coming from the living room. Of course, he could not see everything that was going on. 

"Hands together," she told him. 

"What?" 

"Like you're saying your good-night prayers," she coached. 

He wasn't sure what this game was, but put his hands together under his chin. Hands grabbed his. Strong hands. Not Reyna's hands. Immediately, Sands tried to move away from those hands, but they moved so fast, shoving his hands back and up against the headboard. He felt metal, then the hands were gone and he was securely handcuffed to the headboard. 

"What the fuck?" He struggled against his bonds, anger flooding through him. Anger at whoever did this and at himself for allowing it to happen. He always seemed to get into trouble when he let his dick do the thinking. 

//"Go."// It was a man's voice, and he wasn't talking to Sands. 

"Reyna, I will kill you!" Sands shouted, his lips pulled back in a snarl. 

He heard her footsteps as she walked away. 

"I've been imagining this night." It was a male voice, low, filled with texture, reminding Sands of velvet and granite. He knew that voice. 

"Why, El," he said, recognizing his captor. "I didn't know you cared." 

There was the sound of a soft footstep. "You tried to fuck with me." 

"Well, yes, that's what I did," Sands admitted. "It was my job. Nothing personal." 

"You knew I had no choice but to go after Marquez." 

"That was what I hoped for. And you did a peachy job of it, too, if I might say so." 

"You set up the other man, too." The voice was closer, and Sands imagined he was bent over talking to him. He wondered how many guns El was carrying and how far he would get trying to wrap his legs around El and strangle him. 

"I came her to find you," Sands told him, hoping to turn the conversation to his advantage. 

"To manipulate me again?" 

"No. The cartels are currently warring with one another, but when they get done, and they're almost done by the way, they'll come after you and me. I thought we might nip that scenario in the bud." Sands used a light tone, hoping to defuse El's anger. 

"I have thought of that," El said. Now he was at the foot of the bed somewhere. "And I have thought of you. I saw your picture in the paper." 

"That wasn't my idea. You did get a Presidential pardon out of the deal, though." 

"I didn't know you had been injured that day, until I saw that photo. I thought you were one of those people who sat back and watched everyone else do their killing for them." 

Now the voice was on his right side, and Sands felt the bed shift as the other man sat down. 

"I'm a hands on kind of guy. Why am I tied up?" 

El's hand touched Sands' bare leg. "Because, I know you like your games." 

"What games?" 

"Games of setting people up to do what you want. Like Reyna. You wanted her to play with you tonight." 

Sands had to think about that. "She started that game and gave as good as she got." 

"Well, Reyna is gone now, and it's my turn to play." El's hand moved over Sands' knee, then one finger trailed up the inside of his thigh. 

"What game?" Sands asked again, more surly. "What are you doing?" 

"You have beautiful legs for a man," El told him. 

"What the fuck?" Sands tilted his head to the side. 

"I've been watching you." 

"Sounds like the whole town's been watching me." His lips tugged down into a pout. "Don't tell me, you've been in the cantina every night." 

"Yes. And I've decided that we can work together." 

"Well, great. Fine. So release me then." Sands tugged on the handcuffs, sending the headboard rattling. 

"No. First I will have to teach you to trust me, because I know you don't trust me. And I will have to teach you to respect me, because you respect no one." 

This, Sands thought, was true enough, but his anger at being trapped naked in his own house was building, and El's finger running along his thigh was not helping matters. 

"Your wounds, are they still painful?" El asked, and the curious finger moved to the bullet wound on Sands' right thigh. 

"Not much," Sands told him. He clamped his jaw tightly shut as El ran the finger over the scar then moved it to the left thigh's scar. 

"And your eyes?" El asked, his husky voice almost a whisper. 

"They're gone. I have no eyes." 

El's finger stopped touching Sands' legs, and suddenly the sunglasses were being lifted off. "You look like you have eyes." 

"No," Sands hated El now. "They put stuff in there so there wouldn't be craters, but I have no eyes, fuckmook. What you think, I faked it all?" 

Hands grabbed either side of Sands' head. "No. I don't think you faked it." The bed shifted again and El's leg forced Sands' apart. El's legs, Sands realized, were not covered in material, as he had imagined. This brought a whole new and, to Sands, terrifying set of images to his very active imagination. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sands' voice rose. 

"Well, if we are to have this working relationship," El said calmly, "and we are to trust one another and respect one another, then I think I need to pay you back for fucking me in Culican." 

Sands grew very still. "Look," he said, speaking slowly, "I'm sure I'm a fuck head and I deserve to eat shit and die, but don't do this." 

El's breath was warming Sands' face, his hands still holding on to either side of his head. "Do what?" 

"Don't," was all Sands could manage. 

"You have a very beautiful mouth," El told him. 

"So Reyna said." 

"I suppose you fucked her," El's voice was matter-of-fact. 

"Would that upset you?" 

"No." 

"Yeah, I fucked her." Sands didn't see the point in lying when Reyna was obviously working with El. 

El's tongue touched Sands' bottom lip, and Sands tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. El's hands captured his head and the locked handcuffs assured he wouldn't be able to move away from the headboard. 

"This is not my thing," Sands said, wondering if El even cared. 

"I usually prefer women," El told him, "but there are occasions when a man seems...right." 

"Fuck!" Sands breathed in exasperation. "Of all the killers in this country, I had to try and recruit one who wants my ass." 

"Not just your ass," El said. His mouth moved to Sands' jaw, and Sands tried to bite El. "Naughty," El scolded. 

Sands struggled then, trying to kick, bite, head-butt, whatever he could do, but El stayed firmly in place. "Are you done?" he asked when Sands finally felt too exhausted to struggle. 

"I'll kill you." 

"Yes, I'm sure you will." El shifted his weight, and Sands heard some sounds he couldn't quite identify, then El grabbed each of Sands' legs under the knee and lifted them up. 

Once more, Sands tried to struggle, but it didn't help. Holding onto Sands' legs, El brought them up until Sands' knees were digging into his chest. "You want it," El told him. 

"Fuck you," Sands growled back. 

"You're getting hard just thinking about it," El teased. 

That was not true. With his good looks, Sands had been hit on by gay men since he was a youth. He always politely refused or pretended not to notice. He'd only experimented once in college, and he had not found the experience pleasant in the least, but he had been able to get someone to do something for him as a result, so it wasn't all bad. 

Now, dread flooded through him. The thought of another man taking him against his will filled him with a blinding anger, which turned cold as he realized he was powerless to prevent it. Then El was lowering his legs, and Sands felt the other man lay down alongside him. 

"I said this was about trust." El's voice was softer. 

"You're not going to rape me?" Sands hated the sound of hopefulness in his voice. 

"No, I'm not going to rape you." El's hand touched the side of Sands' face. "Though I think you do not know what you're missing." 

Sands turned his head to face that voice in his eternal darkness. "This isn't funny." 

"It wasn't meant to be funny." The hand touching Sands' face moved and the thumb lightly brush his lips, then his jaw. "I had decided to hurt you, but with guns, not my body." 

The hand continued to travel, down Sands' neck. Its touch was gentle, yet the fingertips were calloused. Most definitely a man's hand. Sands was not used to gentleness, especially from another man. 

"I know I cannot trust you, Sands." 

El was right. Sands could not even trust himself half the time. Like now. He was feeling all these strange sensations. They seemed to spiral out from wherever El's hand touched. He wet his lips. "You don' t have to trust me." 

"Oh, but I do. I've my life is going to be in your hands, I have to trust you." 

Sands thought about this. Now who was manipulating whom? He thought he knew exactly what El wanted, but he still wasn't willing to give it to him. It was only his body, he told himself. A little pain, a little pleasure for El, then the mariachi would trust him. That's all it would take. And El's hand was doing very nice things as it traveled across his chest now, fingering the hills and valleys of his ribs and abdominal muscles. 

The only sounds were those of the music from the other room and their breathing. El's hand traveled further down over the flat abdomen, and narrow hips. "You're sure you don't like this?" 

Sands didn't answer, because now El's hand was dipping into the curls around his organ, as if testing the waters there. He wasn't sure anymore. 

"I tell you what my proposition is," El's voice came from right beside his ear now and he could feel the warm air of his breath. "I will bring you pleasure. All you have to do is allow it. That way, I'll know I can trust you." 

"Allow it?" Sands echoed. 

"Yes." 

"Pleasure?" 

"Yes." 

Sands thought about it. "No raping?" 

"No." 

This was the point where it ended or began, Sands knew. El's finger rested lightly on the strip of dark hairs that ran down in a straight line below his belly button. He actually had no choice, he realized. He was captured. Hand-cuffed. El's prisoner. 

"My hands are still cuffed," Sands pointed out. 

"Yes, they are." El sounded reasonable. 

"All right, but unlock my hands." 

El made a `tisk tisk' noise with his tongue. "Sands, I'm not an idiot. I know you're a trained killer." 

"Not really," Sands shot back. "I'm a linguist. A sociologist. The guns are my hobby. Really. Just like XTC. A hobby." 

El pulled back a little. He could take a hint. "Is that what it will take? Drugs?" 

"It wouldn't hurt," Sands told him, the hint of a smile on his artfully shaped mouth. 

"Where are they?" El sounded as if he had made up his mind. 

"Inside vest pocket of my jacket." 

The warmth beside Sands was gone as the bed springs sang and El got up. Sands heard the rustle of cloth, then the bed sagged again and El took his place. "Open." 

Sands opened his mouth and El dropped a dry capsule in. Working up the saliva, Sands swallowed it. 

"Why do you take drugs?" El asked. "Isn't that what we're fighting against?" 

"No. I'm fighting against people," Sands told him. "People who torture and maim just so they can sell their drugs. A little recreational drugs here and there never hurt anyone." 

El thought about this. "Doesn't the agency you work for..." 

"Worked. Past tense, buddy." 

"Worked for give you tests to make sure you don't take drugs?" El finished. 

"Just lie detector tests, and I can pass those." 

El made a non-committal sound, then resumed lightly touching Sands. "You have a very nice body. It's too bad your mind is so dark," El told him. 

"Yeah, that's what they all say," Sands mumbled. 

El moved closer, the touch of his hardening member touching Sands' thigh, reminding him they were both naked. Normally he would have been uncomfortable with this, but it seemed different with El. 

Apparently, hands and fingers weren't enough for the son of Mexico. He began to touch Sands with his mouth; dry light kisses. The flick of a tongue. 

The drug must have started working; Sands could feel strange sensations traveling out like moth wings from those touches. He smiled more freely. If he was going to be captured, this wasn't a bad way to go. 

The mouth continued exploring, tasting, nibbling on his flesh, even as the hand grew bolder, lightly at first, then more assuredly touching his cock. Sands opened his mouth to comment, but only a little giggle came out. He was feeling mighty fine. He wondered if El planned on giving him a hand job. 

Then El's mouth moved upward, until it was at Sands'. He kissed him, pressing his body against Sands', who found himself kissing back. This wasn't bad. In fact, he felt suddenly horny as hell. El's hand wrapped firmly around Sands' now hardened cock and began to stroke it. 

"You are truly gifted." El was obviously staring at Sands' large member. "Is this what you like?" El asked between kisses. 

"Oh, yeah," Sands admitted. Little explosions of pleasure were traveling down his nerves, erasing the messages of pain he'd carried with him for so many weeks. "Living la vida loca." 

Sands could feel El's own hard erection pressing against his thigh and hip, and he smiled to himself. Even all tied up, he had power over El, only El didn't know it. El thought he was in control, but Sands knew who held the power. Even if he'd wanted to fuck El, he would have said no. Now he had control and El was just like the dog following the bitch in heat. 

El's hand continued to pump him, the friction building, the heat mounting, and Sands threw his head back into the pillow, his mouth open, a smile dancing across his mouth as the drug intensified every sensuous impression. A libertine, that's what he was. The thought made him smile more broadly. 

His orgasm hit him hard, like a giant wave lifting him up and crashing him against the stars. He felt like he would come forever, his body jerking, his rock-hard organ moving in El's hand. Then slowly he floated back to earth. 

Beyond the music, beyond the thundering of his own pulse in his ears, beyond his and El's ragged breathing, Sands heard the town's church bells chiming midnight. He laughed. 

"What?" El asked. 

"Merry fucking Christmas, El. That was some present." 

"Merry Christmas to you," El replied. His tone was suddenly somber, and Sands wondered what thoughts were going through the other man's head. At least they had bonded, if not in one of the strangest ways, at least in a traditional one. Sex was a good way to cement a relationship. 

 


End file.
